


Must have been a blue moon

by Neonbat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A bit of rough play, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Bottom Endverse Castiel, Endverse, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Human Castiel, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, drug references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 15:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14168103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neonbat/pseuds/Neonbat
Summary: When the world is in shambles, and all hope seems out of their reach, there is only one person Dean turns to. Castiel picks up the pieces every time, even when the shards fracture him in return.





	Must have been a blue moon

**Author's Note:**

> Really, really enjoyed doing this fic. My lovely friend Eclecticink was my muse for it and this is all you!<3
> 
> (Usual disclaimer of not owning any part of spn, blah blah)
> 
> Also, I love doing music suggestions with my fics, so here are some great ones to listen to :) :
> 
> Melody Gardot- Our love is easy  
> Simply Red- Home  
> Mogwai- Take me somewhere nice  
> Cigarettes after sex- Nothing’s going to hurt you baby  
> Epik High- Amor Fati  
> Justin Cross- Drink the Water

He should be used to the scent of blood melding with mud after all these years, but it still turned his stomach. Maybe it had something to do with who he was burying.

Or because he killed her.

Dean stood from the grave, unable to burn Heather like she deserved. Rotting in the ground, becoming worm-food, that wasn’t how warriors should go out. She’d been a firecracker from the start. They picked her up a year back, and she’d nearly shot him before he could disarm her. All spit fire and anger in the five-five package who taught K-through-third in a backwater town in Iowa. But now here she was, joining the ranks of all the others they had to put down over the past year and a half.

Her russet brown eyes hadn’t wavered when he levelled the gun at her. She’d been expecting it. She hadn’t even taken the beer. She’d just wanted it to be over and done with.

“Dean?” He’d never get used to Castiel’s duty-rough voice being softened by the barrel full of pills he’d been cramming down his throat since humanity had broad-sided him. The synthetic relaxation made him lose the soldier’s edge that had turned his gut to mercury when Cas got angry. But Cas rarely got angry anymore; he was beyond that at this point. Where Dean had turned to rage, Castiel had shrugged his shoulders and opened his arms wide to the sheer inevitable fate they all faced.

“Yeah?” He grumbled. He hated hearing Cas like this.

“Need help?” Castiel stood shoulder to shoulder with him, hair freshly washed but still a dishevelled mess.

“No.” He never did. He buried every person he Old-yellered. They followed him through every mission, he could at least be decent enough to shoot them himself before they turned- and they always turned. There was no recovering from infection after the Crotes bled you, not in this hellscape. No clever spells or last-minute miracles. Those had died with his baby brother.

Castiel made a low hum, making a good show of being nonchalant; Dean knew better. There was a pain soul-deep in Cas’s tired, bloodshot blue eyes. One that mourned another soul claimed to this lost world. One all too aware that it could very well be him down there now that his wings had been clipped. Dean had seen the man cry in frustration when he’d broken his foot, realizing the full extent of his mortal body for the first time.

The thud of Heather’s body churned his stomach when he rolled her into the grave. Castiel perched himself on the driver’s side of a nearby truck, watching him silently. Anticipating.

He should dismiss him, bark at him to go inside- He never did. As much as he hated it, it did make him feel secure knowing Castiel was right there behind him. Cas didn’t question why Heather was dead; he didn’t have to. He knew. They all knew, and the rest of the members of their ragtag bunch had dispersed to their duties an hour ago. Chuck had puttered around briefly, giving him a morose update on a recent re-con, informing him someone had shot a deer for rations, or how the supplies were fairing. His doleful eyes were sadder than usual. Chuck had a bit of a thing for Heather, not that it mattered now.

Each scoop of damp earth was punctuated by a grunt, venting out his frustrations with every stab of his shovel. No matter how much dirt he hefted over Heather’s corpse the acidity in his stomach never lessened. It built and built until the last bit of dirt was piled on the mound.

Castiel stood, glancing around to make sure everyone was inside. He had a thermos of water in his hand, probably boiled with hippy herbs that tasted like grass but settled Dean’s stomach no matter his grousing.

The burn surged into Dean’s throat, and he dropped the shovel to heave into the grass. They didn’t have the supplies for him to be puking up the remains of his late lunch. It was hard to disassociate the memory of Heather’s face scrunched up in rhapsody when she was grinding her petite body over his hips with the fresh image of her drawn, grey face looking at him with grim acceptance.

When the last bit of bile had left his stomach, Castiel stepped up to offer the thermos. With a rough hand, Dean reached to snatch it up, filling his mouth with the bitter-tasting ‘tea’ and swigging it around his mouth to clear the acrid linger of regurgitated soup from his tongue. He drank the rest, and he didn’t stop until he reached the bottom and his lungs burned for breath.

“Come on.” Castiel’s voice was deceptively gentle for the command laced within. They’d done this enough for it to be old hat.

He followed, dropping the shovel by the hollowed-out shell of his Impala, long abandoned to rust. It hadn’t been practical to drive her- it after shit hit the fan. It was too loud, too noticeable. The jeeps and trucks better served the group. The mission.

The scent of Castiel’s cabin had pissed him off at first. He’d never liked incense, and the homemade stuff Castiel crushed up was better than the dime-priced sticks new age stores once peddled that was all flowery bullshit. The cabin smelled like cinnamon bark, and a wildflower Dean couldn’t recall the name of. If they happened on any kind of spice or a garden run rampant on a scavenging run Castiel was quick to load up his backpack with bundles of weeds to go along with the pills stolen from homes and pharmacies alike. Well, he guessed it wasn’t really ‘stealing’ anymore if the original owners had died ages ago.

“Water’s hot.”  Castiel had a pot of water on the wood stove in the corner. No place had running water anymore. Electricity and running water had gone the way of civilization, and while they did have several generators that took gas, that too had to go towards the mission instead of luxury.

He stripped off his jacket and shirt without care, dropping them to the ground despite the annoyed grunt from Castiel. “You could at least try to act like a civilized person, Dean. I _do_ try and keep things- tidy.” Castiel grumbled, the uttered ‘As tidy as the apocalypse can be I guess’ under his breath not lost on Dean’s fine-tuned ears.

“You just keep things clean for your orgies. Don’t bullshit me.” Dean tossed back with a smirk, the tendril of bitterness threaded into his tone ignored by both.

Castiel’s lopsided grin made his stomach flip in ways that had nothing to do with lingering nausea. “The ladies deserve to feel pampered Dean; the world _is_ ending after all.” He volleyed back, fishing a bottle from his pocket to thumb a few pills to his lips. Neither of them was going to mention the number of men that had joined Castiel’s ‘calming-circles’ as well.

His belt slid from the loops of his worn jeans, and he tossed it and his denims over the back of the chair while Castiel made himself scarce to give him some semblance of privacy.

The first drags of stove-hot cloth over his skin were bliss, a comfort that he felt vaguely guilty of after what he’d just done. It was necessary, it always was, but that didn’t mean he could survive having to shoot another friend in the head without remorse. He might be a monster, but he wasn’t that far gone. Not yet.

The water was quickly turning murky, the combination of dirt and blood collected on his body tainting the herbal scent. A swipe of the washcloth over his shoulder brought a hiss to his lips, and the cloth came away red. He didn’t remember getting hurt, not enough for it to still be bleeding.

“Cas!” He barked, jaw set. A faint flutter of nerves ramped his pulse, a dull dread settling in his veins.

The rapid footsteps of the ex-angel returning and the burst of beads would have been humorous in a life past, but the fear lingering in Castiel’s eyes sobered up the amusement before it had taken grip. “What- Oh, your shoulder.” Castiel stepped close, rough fingers alighting near the wound and drawing another bitten back breath to his lips.

“Is it…?”

Castiel was silent despite his prompt, still poking and prodding at the wound.

“Cas! Dammit, is it infected or not!?”

Castiel tensed, swallowing hard.” No, it’s…it’s probably from glass.” His voice sounded thready, shaken.

“Yeah? So why do you sound like that?” Dean scowled, back-glancing.

Castiel’s hand tensed on his shoulder, holding him in place and preventing him from turning. “You’re an asshole.” He growled, the familiar low hum of anger sending a sharp note of nostalgia through Dean’s veins.

  Huffing, Dean dropped the bloodied towel back into the pot. “The fuck is that for- Shit! Cas!” Castiel dug a thumbnail into the cut, a red-hot jolt of pain travelling down his arm.

“Because-!” Castiel bit back the shout, glaring daggers at him with all the unsaid words.

Dean started back, searching the mired pools that once burned with the weight and fire of Heaven. There was only weariness in them now, so lost and alone. There were no voices in Castiel’s head anymore, no constant conversation of his brethren like a dull static that Castiel hadn’t been aware was so pervasive until it was no longer there. For the first time in eons, he was consistently human with no method of return, and only a mortal death to look forward to.

And yet Castiel was looking at him as if he was the one that feared for Dean. As if it was Castiel that stayed up long nights, worrying that he’d have to plug a bullet between Dean’s eyes. Or worse-, that he’d have to see his best friend die at the hands of a brother Dean had forsaken to the devil.

Like Dean held the sun and moon in his hands.

Their lips parted, each name hovering unsaid in the air. Neither note came. Their lips met in a bruising crash of desperation. Castiel’s shallow beard scraped against Dean’s stubbled jaw, and his calloused hands tugged roughly at the threadbare shirt draped over Castiel’s chest.

There was no finesse in it. No soft caresses or shy hands. They’d done this before, two celestial bodies tugging hopelessly in their shared gravity, only to be destined to crash. They collided and broke apart, leaving bits of themselves in the dust but never able to careen off the set path.

Dean backed Castiel up against the rickety bed, hands diving for Castiel’s jeans. His hand slid under the loose waistband, meeting with interested flesh immediately. Castiel hardly ever wore underwear these days, too ‘constricting’ now that he was human. The rigid button up and dress shoes had been lost the day he fell, abandoned to rot just like Dean’s Impala. All of that belonged to people that no longer existed.

Castiel’s pants hit the floor, and Dean unceremoniously tipped him over onto the bed with a grunt.

“Asshole,” Castiel repeated, challenging Dean’s assertion with heat behind his eyes. Castiel shimmied higher up on the bed, smirking in satisfaction seeing Dean’s rapt attention on his naked body. The bastard liked knowing people found him attractive. Desired him. There was probably a heap of psyche-worthy analyzing in there, coming from a man who’d once tried to witness to a goddamn hooker. But Dean wasn’t the one that could offer Castiel that comfort anymore. He couldn’t offer anyone anything more than this. Not even Cas.

Dean prowled onto the bed, climbing up the length of Castiel’s body until he could claim his lips once more. Castiel hummed against his mouth, hands threading up through his short hair, tugging at the strands with an insistence.

Feeling Castiel’s body- _human body-_ had a novelty that never wore off. He’d lost some weight from his once-vessel’s constant when he’d fallen, but then against most everyone had. Rations were harder to come by these days. Dean could feel the dip of Castiel’s hipbone when he pressed just right or see barely there valleys between his ribs when his arms stretched above his head. He had a scar on his right bicep from snagging his arm jumping a fence. A healed burn scar on the sole of his foot from a wayward coal. Dean knew all these marks and more on Castiel’s body. He catalogued them every time they did this- Whatever _this_ was. He counted and carried the scars with him, taking them into himself.

His hand skimmed down the plane of Castiel’s stomach, growling low as Castiel rolled his body in a slow undulation to rise and meet his exploring hand. The sensual being under him was nothing like the awkward, bumbling Angel he’d known for so long. This Castiel fucked like a tiger and got handsy when he did drugs. He cussed and sneered, drank and puked. Castiel had been unattainable before, but now he was as broken and lost as anyone else. He was so flawed, so beautiful, that Dean couldn’t stare into his face as he used to without getting willfully burned.

“Dean...” Castiel sighed when his hand drifted low, thumbing against the ‘V’ of his hips and drifting no lower.” Don’t…tease me you- “Dean shut him up by sticking his fingers in his mouth, sneering a contented smile when Castiel’s pink lips closed around his digits. Castiel was glaring at him again, sucking his fingers greedily. His hot tongue delved between Dean’s fingers, teasing him with a tantalizing roll that promised heaven and hell.

“Want me already? Didn’t you just have one of your ‘parties’? Didn’t get enough then?” His fingers delved a little deeper. It would trigger the gag reflex in others, but Castiel let his throat go lax and accept the invading length of Dean’s fingers with practised ease. The cocky smirk in his eyes had Dean’s jaw clenching, and a fresh growl rumbled from his chest.

The hand lingering on Castiel’s hips closed the remaining space, palming over Castiel’s straining cock with a satisfied leer at the flutter of his eyes and the upward press of his hips. “Guess not. Didn’t get what you wanted, did you?”

His fingers nudged a little deeper, pressing to the back of Castiel’s mouth until even the pleasure-crazed man was at his limit. Dean withdrew with a sharp breath, lungs filling with an unsteady tremble watching Castiel sputter.

“Just-…going to make me choke on your fingers? Or are you going to give me something more?” Castiel’s voice was sex rough and daring, a warped version of the tone that had gravelled out ‘Hello Dean’ more times than he could count.

Dean’s heart was hammering in his chest, even as he nudged Castiel’s legs apart with a few hard prods from his thighs. Castiel’s long, strong legs draped over his thighs, tilting his hips up in a poised slant. Castiel’s hands were moving, snaking underneath him to grasp his ass and spread himself for Dean’s attention.

Dean’s spit-slick digits were between the cleft of Castiel’s cheeks before he had time to dwell on why it already felt like he’d run miles, or why the evening sound of birds had faded away into the rush of blood that sounded like a dull roar in his ears.

Castiel moaned sweetly at the first press of his fingers against his tight hole. Dean’s first two fingers went in easily, prompting a brow to raise in curiosity and accusation.

Laughing, Castiel’s arms lifted above his head to grasp the chipped headboard, nails scraping over the antique wood.” Mmm, Amelia got a little adventurous earlier.” He explained flippantly. Another red-hot surge of _something_ lanced through Dean’s chest, and a third finger delved into Castiel faster than he should’ve. Castiel tensed momentarily, eyes screwing up as he focused on easing himself into the sudden fullness of Dean’s three fingers working in and out of him with only his own saliva to ease them.

“Jealous?”

The accusation had Dean seeing red. _Jealous_?! Why the fuck would he be jealous? What did he care who Castiel fucked? How many pills he took? How much he was trying to escape from a world that he’d chosen to stay in when all of his kind had fucked off after creating this goddamn mess in the first place?!

His fingers withdrew, and he reached to roughly grip Castiel by the thighs and unceremoniously tug his hips up against his chest, bending him nearly in half until Castiel’s shoulders were braced against his knees. He didn’t even allow Castiel enough time to orient himself before Dean was on him, burying his face in the soft mounds of his ass.

Castiel keened, eyes blooming wide as Dean’s tongue delved into him with the fervour of a man on a mission. “D-Dean!” They’d never done something like this before. Other people had on him, but never Dean. It sent him into orbit, and soon Castiel was scrabbling at the ratty quilt in crazed desperation.

“Dean!”  
  
 Dean didn’t relent, working Castiel open until he was a slick, wide mess begging for entry.  Dean’s hands went slack, letting Castiel claw himself back down onto the bed. He didn’t allow him to get far, not before recapturing his legs and tugging him flush to his thighs once more. Dean’s hands pressed back against Castiel’s legs, pushing until Castiel’s thighs were nearly parallel with his chest, baring his ass to him for the taking.

“Tell me,” Dean ordered.

Castiel looked defiant for a moment, lips pressed thin and a hard puff flaring his nostrils. They were locked in their indignance, their anger. But Castiel broke first. “Fuck me.”

“What?”

“I said, _fuck me, Dean!”_

 The first press of his cock against Castiel’s saliva-wet hole was bliss. In no time he was sheathed, balls pressing to the taut line of Castiel’s ass. Castiel’s lids fluttered again, lips parting in a softly sighed ‘o’ as he reached to scratch his nails down Dean’s heavily scarred chest.

Dean stared down long enough for Castiel’s brow to furrow, but he didn’t let Castiel speak. Instead, he snapped his hips back and reburied himself into his depths, the hard-thrust squeaking the springs of the ancient cabin’s bed. The pace set was a punishing grind. His entry was hard and quick, and his withdraw slower, letting Castiel feel every inch drawing out of him and the lip of his cockhead dragging against Castiel’s walls.

Castiel was groaning in earnest under him, leaving red lines on his shoulders, hips, and anywhere else he could reach. For all the shyness of years past, Castiel had embraced debauchery like a fish to water. He was fierce in it. Starving for it.

Beautiful for it.

Even with plucked wings, Castiel was a creature apart. He’d followed him through it all, through hunts, rebelling against his brethren, and now countless missions. Knowing-, knowing that every mission could be the one that ended up killing him. Dean lived in fear of that every day, praying against all things that today wouldn’t be the day he’d have to bury his best friend.

He hadn’t even gotten to bury his brother. Not when literal Satan was out parading around wearing Sam like a cheap suit. He should have never left Sam to fend for himself. They’d never been _weaker_ apart, but he’d just been so goddamn tired and angry. He’d just wanted it to end so they could go back to what they’d been meant to do.

Saving people. Hunting things.

Family…

But he’d failed the only family he had left in the world. He’d lost his baby brother. The only true task his father had ever given him- _protect Sam_ , and he’d failed. He’d _failed_ Sam.

Tender hands cupping his cheeks snapped him back to his body. His hands had tightened around Castiel’s thighs enough to drain the blood from his olive skin with a bruising force. Dean didn’t know if he’d stopped moving, or if he’d been going too hard. He hadn’t been aware of anything other than the angry red wasps of his thoughts swarming with the ferocity of a chainsaw.

Castiel pulled him close, slotting their lips in a tender slide. Salvation was in that kiss, a cooling balm to the festering gash left on his soul. Dean’s grip went slack, letting Castiel’s legs fall so he could plant his heels against the bed and get circulation back through his lower half.

He moved again, a slow roll opposite of the merciless pistoning he’d started with. Castiel’s legs locked around his waist, surrounding him in comforting heat. Castiel was clinging to him, never letting go of Dean’s face as they delved into each other’s mouth like dying men. Castiel tasted like bitter tea.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, unhurried and sating themselves in the warmth and comfort of each other’s bodies more than chasing their own pleasure. Dean’s orgasm took him by surprise, a molten build of pressure pooling in his gut, funnelling his breath from his lungs in a deep groan hummed into the soft lips below him.

Castiel echoed his groan with one of his own, arching into the flood of warmth that pumped into his deepest reaches. A quiet sound of protest huffed from him, reaching to snatch hold of Dean’s wrist as he shifted to withdraw from Castiel. A brief flash of fear broke through the pleasure-haze of Castiel’s eyes, searching Dean with a quiet plead hidden within the put-upon annoyance that scrunched his face that Dean would abandon him so quickly.

Smirking, Dean knocked Castiel’s hands away and reached down to palm his hand up Castiel’s ass, catching some of his seed that rushed back out of Castiel’s abused hole as soon as he slid free. A heartbeat later his come-slick hand wrapped around Castiel’s still-straining cock, pumping at his length in slow, firm pulls that had Castiel digging his heels into the bed and screwing his eyes shut.

“Dean...” Castiel sighed, reaching for him. Dean sidled back up, kissing against the side of Castiel’s lips in a press so tender it stalled Castiel’s breath in ways that the simple ecstasy of his body couldn’t touch.

“Come for me Cas,” Dean whispered, lips brushing the shell of Castiel’s ear.

That was all Castiel needed to come undone. Another pump later and he was shifting against the bed, groaning low and fisting the quilt as he spilt over Dean’s strong hand.

Dean shifted on the bed, inwardly bitter when Castiel opened his eyes immediately to watch him get his legs out from under him. Slowly, with his eyes locked with Castiel’s, he lowered himself onto the bed next to him. Castiel watched until Dean relaxed into the soiled quilt, and only then did he let his eyes slide back closed.

Dean watched him for a while, noting after a handful of minutes when Castiel’s breath evened out, and sleep took him, prompted no doubt from his orgy in the morning, the downers, and then this.

Hesitantly, his hand outstretched, settling over Castiel’s abdomen to feel the rise and fall of his chest. Mooring himself in the only safety he knew for as long as he allowed himself the comfort.

 

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, in the stillness of the predawn hours when Dean thought him asleep, Castiel would lie awake listening to the sounds of the other’s body. Dean never slept much these days, not when the stress of running their attempt at resistance weighed so heavily. He would focus on his breathing, knowing that Dean would notice any irregularity and pull away the moment he thought Castiel was awake.

It was in those quiet moments where he’d feel Dean’s hand light upon his shoulders, reverently gentle. He’d explained to Dean time and time again that his wings had never been the physical weight on his body that Dean seemed to think they were. They had existed as energy, just like his ‘true’ body had. Stretching into the universe like the tendrils of the God who created them. But that never mattered to Dean. He knew the Fall had affected Dean gravely, almost as much as himself, which was laughable if Castiel thought about it. Why would it matter to a human who had always been human what he was or not? But the grief in Dean was still there, eating away at him as surely as it was Castiel.

Those fingers would trace small patterns against his skin as if Dean was soothing imaginary scars. And sometimes, especially on the days where the harshness of their reality struck a fresh blow, Dean would bow his head against that spot, pressing his face into the curve of Castiel’s shoulders as if hiding away from the world’s depravity. On the times when there were hot, wet patches silently cried into his sun-tanned skin, Castiel would work all that much harder on his breathing. Dean would never forgive him if he turned to gather the man in his arms like he desired. Offer the comfort that Dean wouldn’t allow and that Castiel was too afraid to give. Because in the end, both thought they didn’t deserve that comfort, the closeness of intimacy that had been brewing between them for so, so long.

No matter the pilfered drugs, or the abandon of streams of willing bodies against him, the ache was always still there. It was only soothed on these rare nights when Dean broke just enough to allow himself _this_. Castiel knew he should push him away, demand that they stop the cautious, cowardly dance between them. It needed to end…Except Castiel couldn’t bear the thought of it. He snatched these moments greedily, holding them against his chest with a reverence he knew bordered on the obsessive. He could easily demand more, less, or anything he wanted because now that Sam was gone, Dean only broke for _him_. There was no one else to stitch the pieces back together, as clumsy and imperfect as his hand was. Castiel refused to allow anyone else that honour.

So, he would ignore the stab of emotion when Dean snuck out, afraid that anyone in the compound would find out the obvious. And he would ignore the hot, jealous eyes Dean gave him when he leaned against the doorframe of Castiel’s cabin, watching as his ‘students’ cast hungry eyes up and down Castiel’s body…And Castiel would ignore the bitter taste of jealousy at the back of his throat when he watched Dean stumble into his cabin with a woman on his arms, hands roving her curvy, soft body like his life depended on it. Because in a way it did.

If they acknowledged this between them, then it would break them completely. Dean would watch him every time Castiel loaded his backpack into the jeep for a mission. The intensity of those too-green eyes boring into his flesh worry burning in them that had never been there when he was part of ‘the halo crowd’. Because now every injury, every cold, every infection, had the potential to kill him just like anyone else. The night after his first major injury had been one of those nights where his back had been slicked with tears, and Dean had held him tight, arms snaked around his waist as if afraid that Castiel would float away in the night.

But they would never talk about any of that. It was a perpetual loop they’d been stuck in for so long that there was no hope to break it now. Not unless the unthinkable happened, and on that day one of them could utter those words over the other’s broken body. And maybe, just maybe, they would be lucky enough to go out together, so neither would have to suffer the loss of going it well and truly alone.

The first creeping lights of dawn warmed the sky, deceptive in its beauty. Castiel had come to loathe dawn. The light of a new day broke the spell the night spun, denying him the comfort of the only body he ever truly wanted to lie next to him.

Dean would rise, hands pulling away from Castiel’s body as if he was fighting a magnet that begged him to linger. The bed would dip as Dean sat back, staring down at Castiel’s body lying stretched naked against the threadbare sheets. Sometimes Dean’s fingers would feather against an errant scratch, bite, or kiss-drawn bruise; Embedding them in his memory. Each time they did this could be their last.

Then Dean would stand, snagging a cigarette from Castiel’s nightstand and tugging on his clothing with an efficient air of defeat. Dean knew he was awake, maybe he always did, but Castiel would still play along only listening as Dean finished dressing and made his way to the door. His footfalls would pause, lingering in the doorway as he peered back into the darkness of the room. Watching. The bone-deep sigh that escaped him felt like an apology, and Castiel would accept it every time. The sigh would join the other coveted memories held to his heart, joining the ranks of frantic kisses and tears against his back. Those actions said more to him than words ever did because in the end words weren’t Dean Winchester’s style.

And sometimes Castiel would convince himself that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! And to check out updates or upcoming works my tumblr name is Neonbat666, click under the 'Fic' tab :)


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